


Dog Fight

by tzigane, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Series: Love Crumpet [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Ownership
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:56:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzigane/pseuds/tzigane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock was just as cold as his brother, no matter what Jim might have thought. Jim was all fire and explosions of brilliance and boredom and <i>things</i>, and fuck but he missed that. It was better to be wary than to be faced with that grim smile that never once reached the man's eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dog Fight

He wouldn't kill them.

That was the thing. Mycroft Holmes would not kill his favorite pets, despite their poor behaviour. Killing them would deprive him of their services, and that was unacceptable. Admittedly, he had been underutilizing Moriarty, but that was more from necessity than any personal preference. In order to get any proper use out of him beyond sheer stubborn refusal, it had been necessary to employ certain... medications which seemed to have dulled him. In all honesty, it did make him wonder about Sherlock's addictions, and why, how, it could be worth the sheer magnitude of loss when it came to one's intelligence.

Still, Sherlock was clean again, for the moment, and reachable. He'd been in a stable living situation for coming up on twenty-nine months, with John. John, who he passed on the stairwell.

"He's in a mood," John warned, "and I'm out for the groceries. Don't provoke him."

There was no point in pretending that he might not. "I will try, at the very least. I do hope that is acceptable, John."

The man walked off, just shaking his head. He was never afraid of Mycroft, not even at the first meeting when he'd essentially whisked him away and could have made him disappear entirely with merely a nod of his head. John Watson knew no fear, and it was either astonishing or stupid.

He watched Watson let himself out, and then finished heading up the stairs to let himself in.

"Mind the rug. Mrs. Hudson just cleaned it, and she is most particular about that one. Says it reminds her of her husband."

The urge to roll his eyes had become immense. Exposure to Sherlock always did seem to do that for him. "That is patently ridiculous, Sherlock. She was grateful when Florida had him executed. Such a savage place, at times."

"Well, he did dispose of his victims in rugs, and sentiment is such a strange thing at times, isn't it, dear brother?" Sherlock didn't even look up from the magazine he was reading.

"A waste of time and effort, I would say." Something they had learned at Mummy's feet, in fact. "Doubtless she will eventually get past it. Or not." People were difficult, in a way. For both of them.

"Mmm. Speaking of sentiment, how are your naughty pets?" That was a bother, and he wasn't going to prompt Sherlock accidentally as to what had given him away and give him an opportunity to show off.

"Naughty." As if he didn't know. The small tic of tension in his jaw gave away more than he would like, but then, he had been prepared for that. "I was wondering if you might be interested in assisting me with a disciplinary problem."

"Oh, would I." It struck him for a moment that Sherlock's tone was a fair imitation of Hugh Laurie in Black Adder, and that perhaps John was a poor influence, after all. But there wasn't a smile on his face to match, and his eyes looked sharp as he lowered his magazine. "The question is, is this a consultation, or hands on?"

"Hands on." After all, what could be more humiliating? For either of them. Carefully, he folded himself into John's chair. It was... squishy. A strange sort of feeling but perhaps it was all right for people who were not himself or Sherlock. "You could offer tea."

"Out of milk. And sugar as well. Possibly tea." Sherlock sounded amused as he watched Mycroft. "John likes to let supplies dwindle to see what it will take to make me go shopping. I'll eat wallpaper paste before I surrender. He always caves."

It was utterly maddening, the fact that Sherlock was so... domesticated. It seemed utterly and completely abnormal. "And you enjoy this."

"Do you know I've never had to say a word about our arrangement to him? I've never had to correct him, nor have we sat down and discussed the finer details. He is perfect in every aspect." Never mind that Sherlock could have said _'yes, I enjoy this,'_ and spared the world a few words.

Mycroft settled his elbows on the chair before he folded his hands together. "Yes, and in all honesty, he is the brightest person with whom you have chosen to... consort." Not even just recently. It was... charming. The fact that John had managed to convince him that sex was, in fact, worth pursuing as an activity seemed to Mycroft to have been the most remarkable event of the decade.

Possibly the century.

"You're doing it wrong. You could have a pet and an ally. This could be so much better, if you stopped with your lazy shortcuts and the drugs." It would take a great deal more effort as well.

He had no choice but to acknowledge the fact of things. "Yes, I expect I could. That is in my plan, only for the future. For now, it is a matter of... exerting the appropriate amount of control until they are properly conditioned."

Sherlock's expression tightened in a way that indicated deeper thought, and he brought his fingertips up to his lips. "The addition of Moran makes it both more challenging and less so. This could be a key moment for you."

Could be. Very likely was, which was, of course, why he was seeing his brother. In all honesty, he needed the foil, just as much as he needed to be certain that they understood. "I expect that it is. Baby steps and then on to the final ones. I'm sure you understand."

"Your techniques aren't mine." No, his conditioning of John was subtle and slow and constant, played out down to the bottom of simple activities like the shopping. "But I'll lend a... hand. When?"

"As soon as you find the time. I look at it as being akin to house-training; one must be firm, consistent, and above all...." He couldn't help the smile that snuck over his face. "Be certain that the punishment is swift enough that it will be easily related to the source of the problem. Namely, that attempting to break free of me is a very bad idea."

He watched the slow exhale his brother gave, and knew he'd quite already won the argument before it had occurred. "Now, then. John's PTSD will finish him off in the grocery store, and he'll spend the evening drinking tea and watching shite telly. Let's go." 

Excellent.

Mycroft did so enjoy winning these little battles of things between himself and Sherlock. He stood, one hand straightening out the crease in his trousers. "The car is waiting." The car and his lovely gentlemen. They would learn their place... even if it took conspiring with his brother to do it.

* * *

In retrospect, trying to hire someone to break him and Jim out had been a bad plan. A good plan, but life wasn't an action movie and shit didn't work out just because he wanted it to.

But damn, he'd wanted it to, even if he was going to suffer badly for it. He'd wanted to be free, he'd wanted Jim to be Jim instead of the sleepy, dulled creature who was far too bright to be kept in a stupid princess bedroom for nothing more than the perverted vagaries of Mycroft Holmes.

As a result, he was now in a bare cement cell with a good solid door that he'd tested. It was just a matter of time before Holmes either executed them, or pulled them out for punishment. He just didn't know what it would be. The man was creative, and hard to anticipate.

Thing of it was, he knew the boss was down there. He'd seen it, been dragged kicking and yelling and fighting like hell while he tried to see what they were doing with Jim. It had been obvious from the state of the guys struggling with the boss that they had mistaken the pretty in pink fucktoy version of him for real.

At least there was the satisfaction that Jim had fought them just as bloody as Bastian had taught him to do.

He wiped at the gash that was going to be a nice scar across his cheekbone, and managed to push himself up to his feet. There was noise outside, and while he didn't think it was rescue -- who, after all, would do that for them? -- he did want to put on a good show face and try to look like failure hadn't knocked him for a loop.

Never mind the fact that his pulse was pounding, adrenaline gearing him up for whatever was coming in the door. Years of practice were the only thing keeping him still when it opened, and... huh. Yeah, he hadn't parsed that as a possibility.

"You can come easily or you can be difficult. Either way, you will come." Mycroft Holmes was the rough equivalent of the Persian cat of an evil overlord. His brother was much scrappier.

So after a pause, Sebastian stepped forward, hands at his side. It wasn't as if he had much to hide, he'd been stripped naked as part of the process of being thrown in there. Except the collar. "I'm coming."

At least the prick refrained from announcing that naturally he was; it wasn't as though he had much by way of choice, and there came a point where a man was damned sure vulnerable enough that he had to make the best choice for saving his balls. It wasn't even a metaphorical saving just then, it was real and pressing and directly related to his balls.

Christ. "You're both fucking insane."

Sherlock was just as cold as his brother, no matter what Jim might have thought. Jim was all fire and explosions of brilliance and boredom and _things_ , and fuck but he missed that. It was better to be wary than to be faced with that grim smile that never once reached the man's eyes. "Oh, no. Horribly sane, I assure you."

"We just want _out_." When Sherlock moved, he took a step to move with him, to follow him because it was better than being dragged kicking and screaming.

The satisfaction of that would be too great.

The man moved along in his long-legged pace, eating up the ground in front of him. It was probably intimidating to some. Jim would have to scarper at a fair pace to keep up with him, and he would hate every last second of it.

They stayed in the basement level, and he moved to follow the man to the side room. There were two chairs and a low bench, an assortment of restraints, but nothing else that seemed obvious.

"Do come along, Moran. It won't be all that bad, I don't suppose. Then again, I'm not the one who'll be punished, am I?"

Christ. Fucking Christ. At least he had experience dealing with psychotic bastards. Couldn't be worse than being tazered for the fun of it, could it?

"We just want to be out," he complained again, though he knew it wasn't going to get him anywhere. He stepped into the room, but made no move to help the bastard in whatever he was about to do.

"Well of course you want to be out. If I were faced with Mycroft on even a semi-regular basis, I assure you that I would be plotting any and every possible way out of this house; unfortunately, you do not seem to have quite the same gift of strategy as your..." The pause was audible. "...friend. And I'm afraid Mycroft has rendered him entirely useless at this time. Honestly, it is a shameful waste of resources, none of which actually matters at all." Holmes waved one hand in an elegant loop. "Kneel, if you please. On the bench for now."

It was fucking humiliating, but he obeyed -- because if he was kept separated from Jim, it undid what he'd done all of it for, what he'd given up to try to get Jim out or at least be there to help.

"You know." The sound of that voice behind him made him want to get up, deck him, do something, and he knew that would be epically stupid. "This is not my own preferred method, but Mycroft will do as Mycroft chooses. Also, he is very likely to be eating cake even as we speak. His diet is going miserably." That the topic was even broached was just bizarre. "All right, then. Palms to the back of your neck."

Or hands behind his head, but it was so much more precise. He obeyed, fingers against the leather. "You're fucking crazy." And he was just there to stay near Jim. Just in case. Christ. If he had known what he was getting into when Jim had sidled up to him and started detailing the most horrific things he had done with a delirious sort of pleasure, he might have run. Might have, but instead he was here, and there were cuffs being fastened to his wrists and then securely fastened to his goddamned collar.

Sherlock made no agreement nor any sort of disagreement to his statement; just went about his business, carefully checking to be sure the restraints weren't too tight, and then stepping away from him. "Stay there."

"Where the fuck would I bloody go?" There was nothing to do but swear, but rail against the fact that Holmes and Holmes were going to do whatever they wanted them to do.

"Clearly not very far. Mycroft always has had a bad habit of getting attached to his pets. I never quite saw the point before now." There was a sound of rummaging, and Bastian craned his head, trying to look behind him and see what was happening.

It didn't get him much, because he was mostly getting a good view of the inside of his elbow. Holmes had probably known that was all it would get him, which made him even more annoying than before.

The man rummaged a bit more before returning and standing behind him silently. It was nerve-wracking, not that he would show it. Best to continue as best he could in keeping a straight face. "Right, then. Up. I'll help you to kneel as you bend over the bench. Wouldn't want you to fall flat on your face."

He exhaled in a slow huff of breath as he obeyed, the cold cement hard against his knees. "I'm not going to try to escape."

"No, I expect not. Even if you did, clearly you wouldn't make it very far. Difficult to open doors with one's feet. Not impossible." There was a hand, pushing him down and over the bench, which. Fuck. Just fuck. "But difficult."

"I mean I give up. I fucking give up." He was tired and they were going to be dead before they ever got away. It was just simply that way. He went over the bench, let Sherlock push him down, and just... waited.

What else was there to do? And then there were fingers, slick and impersonal, gloved, and yeah. That was not what he would call good. Or even interesting. Or anything except a humiliation, even when those fingers crooked just so and made his breath hitch. He wasn't entirely sure that wasn't a sob, and it took him a moment to gain any sort of control of himself.

Fuck.

Christ. He'd commanded soldiers into battle, once. He'd had a fucking life and goals he could see in the long term. And now... Now he was kneeling before a young sadist before an older version of the same deigned to join them.

It wasn't any sort of surprise when something slid into him after a rather perfunctory stretching. Even Mr. British Government himself liked it when a man was well-stretched. It was a bit obscene how much he enjoyed it.

The steady vibrating buzz that started up a few seconds later was unexpected, and nothing he wanted just then. He mostly wanted his boss back to himself and he wanted to be left the fuck alone, and neither of those things were going to happen. The vibrator was just a faint stimulation, just at the edge of his prostate. Bearable.

"Excellent." Bastard seemed too sure of himself, and he patted Bastian's left cheek in a way that was just frankly insulting. "Now, then. Up." Up, and he had a hand on Bastian's elbow to help him.

"You're the ones who should be in a cell," he muttered, kneeling up with the tug, feeling his arsehole clench tightly around it, feeling the strained faint held open sensation.

"Mmm. Doubtless, and yet we are not. Don't worry. For one thing, it would be pointless. For another, I'll have your little friend here in a moment." Sherlock stepped away from him and gestured. "Sit."

Sit. Sit on a vibrating dildo and just wait, fine. Christ. He was going to lose blood flow to his wrists at that rate, but he sat perilously, bare-arsed against the no doubt easy to wipe leather. It did... things, shifted the fucking vibrator, and made his breath hitch. The fact that Holmes reached down and grabbed his dick definitely didn't make things any better. A latex ring slid down to the base before a secondary ring was wrapped further, one ball pulled through at a time. It wasn't all that pleasant, and Bastian grunted in response.

So it was going to be a waiting game. It wasn't as if that wasn't something he and Jim had played before, the see how many times he could make Bastian come game. He could grit through it, it'd be fine. 

It wasn't a surprise when Holmes stood, looking satisfied at the position in which he'd settled Bastian. "Your hands might go numb, but we'll deal with that when the time comes." That statement made, he turned away and pulled his phone from his pocket as he stalked towards the door. "You can bring Moriarty now."

He wanted to protest, he wanted to point out that it was inhumane, that it was worse than just fucking killing them and getting it over with. That they might as well be in cement boots at the bottom of the Thames, but he didn't have the room to think about it just then, because Jim was spitting with rage when he came in, and glorious. God, he had missed that. Missed the fire of him, the sheer rage of him, and his breath caught in reaction to the sight. It took two of the impassive-faced guards to hold him, and Holmes seemed delighted by the fact, as well.

"How charming. Mycroft so rarely offers me such gifts. I hate to consider what he might expect in return. No matter. Bring him here."

He leaned forwards as best he could, watching Jim, trying to catch his eyes. That Jim didn't need reassurance, and he'd missed that. The guards threw him over the stool, and one pressed a hand hard against his back to keep him pinned.

Sherlock paced around him, wielding another pair of handcuffs and delicately avoiding the sheer spitting rage. "I will get free of this place, and when I do, I will wear your skin as a suit!"

"I can't see why my brother would deny himself the joy of grinding down your edges." He carefully handcuffed Jim, hands low behind his back in a way that the man had to know Jim could squirm out of. 

"One of these days, he'll cut himself on them. And when he does..."

"Blah, blah, blah. Boring!" Holmes declared. It was horrifying how familiar that was. Jim started to laugh, and Sebastian mostly squirmed on the vibrator as Holmes paced around Jim to better secure his wrists. "You've had a miserable time of it, but you've led a tiny under-reaching miserable little life."

"Under-reaching?" Jim laughed at that, a dark, dirty, glorious noise. "Oh, as if you could even begin to know."

"You could have done so much! Instead you went for murders, scraping grasping murders and gratuitous violence." Sherlock's hand landed hard on Jim's arse, three slaps in a row.

Jim was seething, and if he had been free, Bastian suspected he'd be trying to tear out Holmes's throat with his teeth. "Better that than fucking around being a lazy cat, expecting saucers of cream to appear in order to distract yourself. You are so bored that you can barely live through the days sometimes, while I had my fingers in so many pies, keeping up with all of the threads, keennmph!"

"Do shut up," Holmes sighed, buckling the gag into place.

Bastian swallowed, glad that he wasn't gagged, and unwilling to provoke that on himself. The vibrator, low, present at the fringes of his awareness wasn't earth shattering yet, but it was starting to get to him. Sherlock glanced over, smile wide and lazy and smug, yeah, fucker, as he slapped Jim's ass one more time before picking up the lube again. "I think you'll both enjoy this more than you should."

Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean. Jim was squirming, writhing desperately as though he might get away. Holmes didn't seem fussed by it; just kept getting sloppy with the lube and occasionally smacking Jim's arse as though he were nothing more than a bit naughty. The insult of it must be tremendous.

Jim kept making noises behind the gag, wildly annoyed sounds until Holmes pulled his hand back. "Better. We're just going to arrange you, Moriarty, and then I have some reading I'd like to get to. I found this lengthy treatise on the physics of asteroids..."

Oh, fuck. Fuck, that was just sadistic, and Jim's writhing and squirming almost sent him tumbling over before a gesture of one languid hand brought the guards closer again. "On Moran's lap. Now. And hold him until I have him settled."

Jim was pushed onto his lap with a hard jar of motion that drove the vibrator deeper into his arse, made Sebastian grunt and pull with his wrists. "Christ, watch it..."

"I thought a little light entertainment might make your greatest academic output a little less plodding, Moriarty." Sherlock crouched down, reaching back between Jim's legs, and Sebastian felt him grab at his dick.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, and Jim's eyes were wild, fury and a growing, sickening sort of realization that made him do his best to fight it. The guards had their hands full, literally, each holding a leg, hooking his elbows so that he could be held a bit more tightly. It didn't seem to help any, because Sebastian could feel it when Holmes managed to get him settled properly, pushed him all the way down so that all either of them could do was groan.

He pressed his mouth against Jim's hair, trying to muffle his own groans as Jim's hands were loosed from the cuffs and then strapped to the chair at his wrists. "I wonder, is that much what you looked like at home before? Mycroft has no doubt completely ruined your sex life," Sherlock opined, sounding amused. He was probably getting ready to do up Jim with the same kind of cock rings that he'd already put on Sebastian. "You may go. I have a handle on him." On both of them, Sebastian reckoned, but the guards obeyed.

Bastard.

Fucking, fucking bastard, although in all honesty, Jim would have loved this before. Would have, and might even love it now. He was shaking, and Bastian could feel his hands balled into fists behind him. God. Fucking. Damn.

There wasn't anything he could do. He could barely squirm, and the vibrator up his arse was a low pressure that was constant, caught on the border between uncomfortable and aching in an unbearable way. "Christ. You can't just leave us here..."

"Can't I?" Oh god. Oh, god, and Jim was angry, which usually made him want to fuck, and Sebastian, as well. He was fucking gorgeous when he was like this, and they were stuck. Stuck entirely, and Holmes came back with the ring, pushed it down over Jim's cock, and then just...

Just walked away.

Fuck.

Sebastian squirmed, fought then, tried to twist, but the muffled noises coming from Jim on his lap reminded him that his moving was a problem for Jim, and they could fuck like that for hours, slow, slight movements, except it wouldn't get either of them anywhere. It was clear from the look on Jim's face that he knew it, as well, and that he hated it, was furious about it. Worse yet, Holmes settled into a chair and picked up a book, flipping it open to a page about midway through. The spine read, in gold letters, _The Dynamics of an Asteroid_ , and damned if that wasn't an insult. Reading something Jim had penned when he was off pretending to be someone else (which happened, as strange as that might sound to other people) was damned near a challenge.

He was mostly sure he wasn't imagining that the vibrator moved from a low, slow buzz to an alternating pulse that made him pull at his wrists, trying to hold onto Jim, to get traction, anything at all to relieve it. "Fuck, fuck, I'm sorry, Jim..."

Sorry, but sorry was kind of like wishing. It was worth absolute dick all, and this was something Jim would never forgive. It made him a little sick to think of it, even as he bucked up and into him. It wasn't fucking enough, not even close, and he didn't want to look at him, didn't want to see the expression on his face. Fucking someone who was suffering a murderous rage was a bad fucking idea.

The fact that he was behind Jim and straining not to move made the not looking at him part so much easier to do or at least try to do. Bastian bucked, then froze, trying to keep himself still again until another jolt made him hitch his hips to try to get away, up into Jim again. Jim was whining, a low sound in his throat, and then he ground down, twisting so that his legs got them something like traction, and he'd bet money that Holmes hadn't counted on that. Hadn't known what Jim was like when he was desperate for good sex, and ungh. Fucking, fucking fuck.

No one counted on Jim's mania, or his sex drive, not even Sherlock. He moved up against Jim, squirming fast motions that wouldn't get either of them anywhere with those fucking cock rings. Jim was shaking so hard he could feel it, but it didn't stop the way he moved, the way he squirmed desperately to get Sebastian in him, where he belonged. It was desperation, a complete, needy motion, his entire body devoted to it so that he was sweaty and demanding and strained in very short order. "Nnngh!"

"Please, please, please..." He wanted to come, he wanted to move, he wanted it to stop so very badly and it wasn't like they'd even escaped, like they'd had a chance in hell of actually getting out of there, like they were ever going to be able to do anything but exactly what Holmes wanted them to.

Jim was whining low in his throat, and he kept shifting. Now and again, he would go still, lie there shuddering against Sebastian's chest. He was sweat slick, and he finally laid his head on his shoulder and just... stopped moving. The vibrator was still buzzing in him, making it impossible to stay completely still for Jim, his balls aching and Christ, it all hurt, made him shake.

Holmes was reading as though it were deeply interesting, and Sebastian was finding it hard to breathe. Fuck, fuck, he wasn't going to cry.

He wasn't, except he buried his face in the top of Jim's sweaty hair and gulped for breath. The faintest shift of skin seemed to him to be an attempt at soothing him, and that made it even worse somehow. He didn't need, want Jim soothing him, he wanted to get them out, he should have gotten them out, he'd failed.

He'd failed the moment he'd walked into Holmes's residence that first night because there wasn't any way out. "Sorry, 'm sorry Jim, I'm sorry, boss, s-s..."

A year ago, six months ago, it would have been more likely that Jim would shift his head, slam it into Sebastian's nose to stop him. The fact that he didn't, that he moved so that his skin rubbed against his instead... it was kind of horrifying.

He inhaled shakily, and tried to hold it together, pressing his mouth against Jim's skin. Best to try and control it, control himself, because fuck. Fuck, and Jim squeezed around him, hot and tight and fucking familiar, and he had to be getting sore. Had to be, because Sebastian was, and it felt good just to taste him and feel him, and shameful, too.

"There, there." Holmes was mocking them, and then he stood, laid down the book and strolled forwards. "I do believe the lesson is learnt, yes?"

"Fuck." Yes. Yes, there wasn't any escaping. They was going to die there, eventually. Someday.

The fact that there was a very fucking sharp pair of scissors in the man's hand should have been terrifying; but then he was delving about, pulling the latex ring around Sebastian's balls hard, which made him groan. The cold, hard edge pressed against his skin, and then he felt the ring go loose. The move was made again with the one around his dick, and fuck. Fuck, yes.

"Excellent."

He exhaled a breath he hadn't been sure he'd been holding, and tried not to immediately buck up into Jim, not to just fuck him raw and come. He had to control himself, had to do something right, and then Holmes reached down and tugged off the ring on Jim as well and stepped back with a satisfied smirk.

"Well?"

"Oh god." He slouched over Jim, started to move and mean it, thrusting as much as he could with the restraints. So close, so damned close, and Jim went from limp and despondent to taking him in, rolling with his motions. His head was still dropped back against Sebastian's shoulder but it was different now, and he was squeezing tight around him, making sounds against the fucking ball gag, and yes. God, yes, this. This.

This, something they didn't indulge in often when they were alone together because Jim was usually battered and Sebastian was usually exhausted and they didn't want to rub raw an old wound. 

But that was why he'd come back for Jim, that connection, the way Jim moved just then, how he felt against him. Warm and sweaty, smelling of sex, and Jim's cock was wagging in the air, untouched, but he knew. He knew he could get him off if he just... shifted, just moved exactly so, and he managed to slouch in the chair and get himself closer, get the angle changed.

Tiny short thrusts, and he hoped to god he was rubbing against Jim's prostate because he was sure his stomach muscles were going to kill him in the morning. The frantic squirm it got him assured him that he was at least hitting it more often than not, and then Jim gave a sound. Even muffled, he knew what that was, and then he tightened, his entire body going stiff and still, high whine in the back of his throat.

Thank god. Orgasming was easy then, like closing his eyes as he gave another couple of thrusts and relaxed into it. Home, Jim was home in so many stupid ways.

Home. Even if they didn't have anything else.

They stayed there limp for a bit, Jim catching his breath, Sebastian enjoying the feel of him.

It wasn't as if they had anywhere to go, given that they were still strapped and bound and Holmes was smiling.

And he'd never touched them.

Motherfucker.

"Honestly, I do think Mycroft's methods are a bit much. Not the way I prefer to do things, but there you have it. Perhaps you will be good toys for him for a bit now, hm?"

"Yeah." Fuck, anything to try to edge things down a little to make life bearable.

With a hum of pleasure, Holmes pushed his hands into his pockets. "Well, then."

He walked away and left them there.

* * *

It had shocked him to find that Moran's prior obedience had returned after just leaving them with Sherlock for a short period of time. His brother was... certainly efficient at garnering that particular obedient streak.

Luckily enough, he had video. Very nice video, video which he would watch with great enjoyment every time.

He would need to send a thank you card. And possibly a biscuit tin, just so that John would make questioning faces at Sherlock until he worked out an answer. As loathe as he was to say it, there was a deep possibility that he might have to take hints from Sherlock on what to do in regards to.... training.

For the time being, his darling pets were nicely chastened, tucked into the cellars. Clearly the notion of the princess in the tower was no longer going to be an amusement for him.

He'd have to reunite them, of course, but Moran hadn't quite re-proven his loyalty just then. Not just yet. A couple of weeks out on the street, testing his tethers, and then perhaps. But the cellar it was going to stay.

It was probably more to Moriarty's liking to begin with.


End file.
